


TOUCH/GAZE

by winluvr



Series: THIS IS OUR NEW RELIGION. [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Character Study, Demon x Priest AU, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, M/M, Miya Atsumu is a hot priest, Mutual Pining, tender romance between a priest and a demon but make it sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26947150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winluvr/pseuds/winluvr
Summary: Even when Shinsuke’s presence cannot be felt, it’s as though he’s still dissecting him under the eyes of a thousand saints, as though he is trying to carve his ungodly name unto the cold, hard wood of his body to match the wood carvings of the centuries old door.Desire is primitive and it starts with Shinsuke.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Kita Shinsuke
Series: THIS IS OUR NEW RELIGION. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966375
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	TOUCH/GAZE

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. demon-priest atsukita concept is from saelove_0604 on twitter :) all credits to them  
> 2\. this was supposed to be part of a full-length 10k fic but i couldn't get some of the scenes done... so i will split it up into three or more fics

Atsumu sees Shinsuke’s face every time he enters the gates to the cathedral, dressed in layers and layers of vestments.  _ There he is _ , he thinks to himself, as he watches Shinsuke materialize out the thin air. Shinsuke’s hands, his wrists, his neck performs a pirouette over the stained glass windows. 

In the hour of the night, Atsumu watches as Shinsuke splays out his fingers against the rivering lines of his neck and runs his hands across the breadth of his shoulders as though he is trying to sculpt his body into something he owns. In the hour of great mercy, Atsumu writhes under Shinsuke’s touch as the warmth of his breath hovers over his shoulder blade, leaving the softest of kisses along the square of his jaw to the cold skin of the crook between his neck and shoulder. 

Atsumu imagines the kisses that Shinsuke would leave on his unmarked skin. He imagines the kisses that Shinsuke would leave on the miles and miles of untouched skin under his cassock. There are no tattoos that mar the stream of his body under the soft fabric of his clerical attire, but Shinsuke knows that his mouth, as soft and pink as it is, as infernal as his body is, would be enough to ruin the priest’s discipline.

Shinsuke would leave only the smallest, softest kisses on his body when no one is watching. He’s another boy turned into nothing but a spectacle for an infernal being to adore, for a demon to admire. Shinsuke would caress the softer parts of his body and decorate it with his name. He would lick a long stripe along the square of his jaw, down to the rivering lines of sweat running down his chest, further and further down to where he has never let anyone else touch before. Shinsuke would ghost his breath there, then pull away when he feels him twitch under his gaze, when he feels him buck his hips.

Atsumu would stand under the images of a thousand saints that line the ceiling of the church. All these saints, all these people who died in the name of martyrdom, looking at him like he had become a hero in a night. But Atsumu knows that he is no longer worthy of being looked at by the saints, he is no longer worthy of having Shinsuke’s eyes glaze over his skin like he could be made of alabaster. Atsumu knows he is not worthy of anything, but he takes what Shinsuke can give.

Atsumu had been born a taker and Shinsuke had grown up to please men like him, whose eyes are filled with anguish and whose hands are lined with primal desperation. Atsumu would let Shinsuke close his teeth around his neck and hold his hand, tracing the lines of his palm until his forearm rises up in flames. He’s an incubus in its true nature and Atsumu knows this, but he still lets him touch him like he’s an artifact.

Shinsuke’s red-rimmed eyes would become half-lidded as he looks at Atsumu. They would fill themselves to the brim until it overflows with unholy intention as he looks at him, like he wants him all the way down to the core, like he wants him to decompose in front of him. He would hold the fillet knife to flay the skin of his chest to reveal the layers and layers of red, red, red underneath. He would scrape the surrounding skin until there is nothing left in him but blood. Excoriate him and scrub his paper-thin skin raw, strip all of his layers away.

Atsumu would touch himself under Shinsuke’s scrutinizing gaze and frame his own image along the abstract portraits of foreign saints above their heads. There’s St. Andrew, leaning against a tall saltire, holding a scroll in his hand. St. Anthony, looking down at Atsumu with a disapproving look, the crease of his brow marring the skin of his forehead. St. Augustine of Hippo, holding a hooked staff and a bible raised to his waist, dissecting Atsumu with only a glance. Even when Shinsuke’s presence cannot be felt, it’s as though he’s still dissecting him under the eyes of a thousand saints, as though he is trying to carve his ungodly name unto the cold, hard wood of his body to match the wood carvings of the centuries old door.

Desire is primitive and it starts with Shinsuke. Desire takes Atsumu apart and puts him back together just in time to be able to catch one glance of Shinsuke’s imposing figure. He would know how primal his desire is, how wild and unbridled his wanting for pleasure could be when put under a moment of Shinsuke’s unwavering attention. Pleasure could be found when he reclines beneath Shinsuke and curls into his touch. A flame burns under Shinsuke’s rough palms and it’s enough to send Atsumu to hellfire. Pleasure is in one boy’s attention.

Atsumu looks up when he’s finished and there he is. There he is again, hovering over him in his nightly dreams. There he is, haunting him even when he’s wide awake. Shinsuke’s face is superimposed on the wooden image of Jesus Christ that had been enclosed in a glass dome, sculpted more than four centuries ago. He sees him when he crosses the aisle to the altar and offers his praises, clasps his hands together for a prayer of contrition. When he looks up toward the sky, Atsumu sees Shinsuke’s face framed on the ceiling. There he is, Shinsuke’s face is printed across the gilded walls, his hands lined with gold leaf, his neck embossed with bronze.

Shinsuke’s face is everywhere he looks. Atsumu looks up and finds himself writhing in agony on the marble tiles of the chapel, crouching behind the ambulatory’s curved aisles, his body folded into itself. He’s trying to hide himself away from the searing glare of the sun through the glazed windows. He is trying to hide himself from the Lord’s righteous all-seeing eyes. But when he cowers away, he makes it so much easier to be found. He makes it so much easier for Shinsuke to find him. He knows him by his silhouette, the feel of his mouth.


End file.
